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  • Dinner for one at a table for six. Left over scrambled eggs and half an avocado. Words with friends. On the phone, not in real life.
    This house isn’t even yours.
    The books on the shelves, the pictures on the wall, the cat at the door all belong to someone else. The bed you sleep in is molded to someone else’s body. That cookbook holds recipes for a different pair of hands.
    But the boxes in the corner, those are all yours. The ripped out cedar plank with a name scratched on it. The shoes by the door. The peanut butter on the counter and the milk in the refrigerator.
    And the list on the table that you will use to have a conversation that needs to happen.
    “You called her and that was weird.” “You robbed me of my summer.” “I won't endure your abuse anymore.”
    So you don't choke when it comes to it. So you won't forget anything. So he will know exactly what he has done to you, Ma and Brita.
    "I tried to be a friend to you."
    Friends don't let friends be asses.
    And the journal next to it, with “I hate this cover but it was the only one they had” scrawled across the front.
    Those thoughts are yours. The ones you won’t let anyone see.
    Not Momma, not Melody, not Ellen, and not me.
    There’s a lot of you in the house that isn’t yours.
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